


Misshapen Chaos, an Enderal Story

by Jaeger Gipsy Danger (Carleen)



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls Enderal, Elder Scrolls V: Enderal, Enderal (Video Game)
Genre: Enderal - Freeform, Enderal Romance, Enderal Slash, Enderal Story, Enderal The Prophet, Enderal m/m story, Jespar Romance, M/M, Skyrim Enderal Story, The Prophet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-09-25 04:06:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9801947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carleen/pseuds/Jaeger%20Gipsy%20Danger
Summary: Sellsword: A person employed to fight in an armed conflict who is not a member of the state or military group for which they are fighting and whose primary motivation is private gain, especially monetary.





	1. Chapter 1

 

* * *

"Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate!

O any thing, of nothing first create!

O heavy lightness, serious vanity,

Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms,

Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health,

Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is!

This love feel I, that feel no love in this."

Shakespeare, _Romeo and Juliet_

* * *

 

**Jespar Dal'Varek**

      I am a sellsword and a client of whores. What more is there to know? If the term is too base for you, then call me a mercenary or Gallowglass, the outcome is the same. I am good at what I do, but I shall die upon some heathen's sword or with my throat sliced open by the hand of a villain the same as any soldier. I possess a name if you insist on knowing it. Although it's meaningless really. My name is Jespar Dal'Varek. My family is dead, and I am the last us. There are no children to follow me or fortune to inherit. If my father left any coin for his only son, I know not of it and care even less.

     The sum total of Jespar Dal'Varek? A matched pair of iron daggers, the clothes on my back, one change of linen, moderate good looks and a random amount of coin in my pocket. My heart and my journey are my own. I work for coin and give my allegiance to no one, save the one who pays me. If I sleep alone under the stars curled into myself to stave off the cold or cushioned between the soft breasts of two whores or pinned beneath the hard planes and strength of a man, it is no one's business but my own. If I die on the road, my body left to rot in the weather or rendered up for the animals it is a no less violent end then I meet out to my adversaries.

     And all that was true until one day in late Autumn when I plucked a man from the coarse brambles of a blackberry thicket just before a killing blow struck him down. The men were the crudest of villains, so intent on their prey they didn't notice my approach. The sound of fighting had reached my ears before I rounded the bend, so I knew the man had tried to defend himself. With his clothes caught on the thorns and blood dripping into his eyes he could no longer parry their blows. In the few seconds, before they landed they killed him, I tossed my dagger at one of them. I heard the strangled breath of choking and watched the sword drop from hands that now clawed at his throat. My second blade entered the second man's back, severing his spine and dropping him to the road. Ignoring his screams, I turned my attention to their target and tried to help him from his prison.

     "Be still," I told him when he began to struggle at my touch. He continued to fight me until I wiped the blood from his eyes. "Do not fear me," I said. "Look at me."

     When my hand landed on his bare shoulder, his eyes flashed open. Balanced between my hand and a pair of disarming green eyes, I ran out of words. He froze. My other hand went to his cheek to wipe away more blood, but he ducked away. With my hand trembling inches from his chilled flesh a surge of warmth flashed across my skin while setting my blood to singing as it heated my mind with fumes meant to dull and confuse. What manner of man is this? A Dal'Varek does not swoon, yet I feel faint. A Dal'Varek does not allow the distraction of ethereal beauty to pull him from the pursuit of his goals. His hair, as dark as a starless night, lay about his broad shoulders in a tangled disarray adorned with thorns and dead leaves. His jerkin and leather pants hung slack on a too thin body. The clothes were patched at elbow and knees. The fabric of the linen he wore beneath jerkin was homespun not linen. On his feet were dirty boots, the sole of one worn through.

     I caught my breath and pulled him to his feet. If I thought to separate myself from him, it failed when he swayed. What could I do but catch him? So I carried him to a green spot, under a spreading oak, where the thieves had waited for him and found a skin of water and a pot of soup. When I had him settled, I went in search of my daggers and any treasure those thieves might have left behind. After I hid their bodies, emptied their pockets and secured their packs, I sat down next to the stranger and waited for him to wake up.

     What else could I do?

 


	2. These violent delights have violent ends

 

* * *

"These violent delights have violent ends."  
―William Shakespeare, _Romeo and Juliet_

* * *

 

**Lucien Vanserra**

I awoke in a fog of shifting memories and dappled sunlight on my skin. The sound of a spoon against iron turned my head and sent a thrum of pain against my temples with a ferocity that closed my eyes. What I thought might be a fever from exposure was obviously something more. A fever that sent alternatively shivering and sweating. A headache that made it difficult to focus. I fell back, weakness over took me and left my fate to chance.

When I could open my eyes again, the slender young man scraping the last of food from the bottom of a pot was impossible to ignore. A shock of clean blond hair hung over his forehead. I watched mesmerized while supple long-fingered hands moved gracefully through the mundane task of filling two bowls.

When he glanced up at the horizon I noticed the scars that marred his handsome face. No, I blinked and forced my eyes to focus. That wasn't true. If anything, the marks lent a worldly air to his otherwise youthful look and unblemished cheeks. Not many avoided the pock marks and sallow skin of chronic illness

Memories of Sirius took me by surprise. Gone. Throat cut and tossed to the fish. Sirius. Why had I not suffered the same fate? I have no memory of swimming to shore. If not for the fever I'm whole...no, my leg aches, adding kindling to the fever burning my flesh. His voice, alive now only inside my head spoke to me of love and friendship. Friends long before we took those first steps toward intimacy. The sum of our tenure as lovers amounted to a few stolen kisses and a few furtive touches. We'd come together out of shared desperation of our home lives, but love between men was against the law where we came from. We never had a chance and we were naive to believe otherwise. I bit down on a groan and squeezed my eyes against the hot tears of grief.

"You're awake," my young man commented as if we were on a picnic and I had simply dozed off. Those eyes! Coward that I am, I turned away searching for a topic which might not reveal the truth. "Is there any water?" I managed.

"And stew. If you think you can keep it down," he replied in a voice that sent a prickle of gooseflesh over my arms. The water skin found my lips as he dropped to sitting cross-legged at my side. The water ignited my hunger and suddenly famished I rose on an elbow and leaned toward him.

"Easy, easy," he said kindly with a hand on my shoulder. "You'll just puke it up, and there's not much here. I only packed enough for a couple of days. The bandits were kind enough to leave us their supper. "Here," he handed me a heel of bread, and it disappeared faster than good manners allowed.

"You don't have to feed me," I said trying to regain some control over the situation.

"I'm aware of that, but you're weaker than a kitten, and that thigh wound is still bleeding."

Had he just used the word kitten?

I was amending his analogy when my savior laughed. I shivered at the congenial sound. His voice is deep and timbered like the sound of men chanting or a flute played in a low register.

I had to agree with him, "A nearly drowned kitten is the truth of it. My friend and I…never mind." I pushed himself up and struggled backward enough to lean against the trunk of the oak tree. "I thank you for your kindness, sir. Those bandits nearly had me."

"Don't misunderstand but it's not as if you looked prosperous enough to rob."

"Sailors... Searching for me... I…Thank you for the help. I have no means to pay you back. But I will try. If you'll tell me your name…?"

"You are not fit to be on your feet. If you'll wait but a little while. You're feverish. I can see the heat simmering on your skin and you're pale to the white's of your eyes."

"I know...I feel it. I must keep moving...My eyes rolled back in my head, while the world dissolved around me and I fell against the tree. And once again, I'm alone in the open with my handsome stranger. Only this time the sun is sinking toward twilight. Not a good time for picnicking outside the gates. With a bit of help from a guard, he managed to get us to the inn and into a private room.

I remember the guard and falling to the bed, though not much else. When I awoke it was morning and quick inspection lets me know my leg injury no longer ached. In fact, it was so much better that I swung my legs over the side of the rope bed. My eyes searched the room and disappointment washed over me sending me back to the straw mattress. My young man was gone and the place of him I found a note on much-creased parchment.

_Mysir_

_I did not ask your name and for that, I apologize. You placed your trust in me and I ask you to trust me one more time. I implore you to seek out the Holy Order located in Ark. The origin of your fever lies with the magic abilities within you. I've worked with enough arcanists to recognize Arcane Fever. Whatever magical talent you have, by whatever name you give it has broken free. I can imagine your fetching eyes widening at my claims. What makes you ill is that your body cannot cope with the magic. It will kill you, bit by bit, spell by spell until there is nothing left of you. And that would be a sad day, indeed for we have not taken the measure of each other, raised a pint, and compared philosophies, religious or otherwise._

_There are two things you must do as soon as you find your feet. One is to get yourself to the Nehrimese mage Constantine Firespark. The other is to gather yourself a supply of ambrosia. Ambrosia cures the Fever. However, those who rely on Ambrosia and do not submit to the Holy Order are known as wild mages. They are feared and hounded to the very edges of society. I would not see such a fate come to you. Also, membership in the Holy Order will provide you a measure of safety. No one dares question the_ mages _. And now, I must leave you. There are things I must see to and a job to complete. If you wish (and I hope you do) to contact me, leave word with the barkeep at the Dancing Nomad._

_Jespar Dal'Varek_

Inside the parchment was enough coin for clothes and a meal. With happiness of a child with a surprise gift I held the letter to my chest and closed my eyes. My handsome stranger appeared as a golden image in my mind's eye and now I knew his name. "Jespar Dal'Varek," I repeated aloud. Quite a grand name. Is he a mysterious nobleman fleeing from his country? A highwayman? A beggar? A sell-sword who's allegiance is measured by profit gained? While I washed and dressed my thoughts of Jespar stayed close and I wondered when next we might meet. My fever had cooled with food and sleep so I decided I would go to the Dancing Nomad before setting off to the Temple.

My naivete at this world took me as far as the Dancing Nomad where I managed to leave word for Jespar. The next three days kept me busy solving one problem or another. Fetching birds eggs and the like. Simple tasks that rebuilt my strength and allowed me to move among the townsfolk and hear the news. I hear them referring to someone called the Prophet. I can't imagine who they speak of. For the most part, I keep my head down, help out when I can and save my coin. Staying busy calmed the fear that I might be identified as the escaped stowaway and hauled off to prison...or worse.

The night finally arrived when I would meet Jespar at the inn, yet I still had not found my way to the Nehrimese mage he mentioned. I'll admit my anticipation at seeing Mysir Dal'Varek overrode any common sense I possessed at seeking a cure for my fever. The grief at losing Sirius began to recede in the light of this new world I'd literally been dropped into. My so-called magic? Not ready to face that, at all. I didn't need it, so I wouldn't use it. The visions? I felt sure they would ease and eventually disappear. I would tell no one.

The door to the Dancing Nomad opened as I reached for the wooden handle, so worn that the oak appeared black. At first glance, the noise of talking, music, and dancing assaulted my senses and I almost retreated to the quiet of the countryside—hunting for birds eggs had calmed my frazzled nerves and eased my fever. The noise quieted when I found the blond head I'd sought since the door opened.

He was speaking to a young woman. One of those women one can easily guess their trade. The kind of woman would not age well and find herself one day with her looks gone and only rags to clothe her body. Jealousy? I wondered at my harsh treatment of the young woman. Jealous of what? Mysir Dal'Varek probably enjoyed more than a few earthly pleasures. And, I scolded myself, it was none of my business. He was the first friend I'd found in this new land and I owed him my life. He did not owe me an accounting of his personal life.

Although I approached the table quietly he noticed me immediately and gave the woman a friendly pat and shooed her away.

"There you are. Come on then. Don't be shy. Sit."

I seated myself across from him and suffered his scrutiny while he studied the blush spreading across my cheeks. The stew and two beers arrived seconds before my courage failed me and I sprinted for the exit. No longer at death's door, the man's charisma reached out and sent my heart hammering like a soldier's drum leaving scarcely enough air in my chest to breathe. How I might swallow any food, was another matter. I reminded myself that I was not a child or helpless or a country bumpkin. I covered my embarrassment with a swallow of beer. Then our eyes met and held. My ceramic mug landed on the splintered table with a thump that startled us both.

"So," he cleared his throat (apparently his beer had reverted to hops and barley.) "It's...it's good to see you. You're looking better. Please tell me your name."

"It's Lucien," I said a flicker of fear at revealing my name turning my hands to ice.

Well, Lucian," he tried again and took another swallow of beer, looked down at the stew and thought better of trying a spoonful. "I, uh, have passage to Kilé. Time for a change of scenery. This town is spent. Worked my way through the local brews, the ladies...and, the men...Apologies."

"For what?" I asked wondering at the reason for his rushed words. He didn't seem like the type for nerves. What did he mean by apologies... Then our eyes met again and I realized what he meant.

"We hardly know each other. Your personal preferences, well... they're none of my business and certainly, you cannot offend me. When does your ship depart Enderal?"

"In the morning. First light."

_He's leaving, my mind screamed. Stop him._

"We only just met and I'm certain I owe you more than a few beers for saving my life."

When his eyebrows began to climb under the mane of ash blond hair I blushed again. Then fear at his leaving gave me courage and I blurted, "Surely there are not enough handsome mercenaries in Enderal? I mean...we hardly know each other...I lost someone close to me...a friend...his name was Sirius. We...he and I...were more than friends...If you take my meaning."

The smile that light up his face quieted my anxiety and I smiled back. Perhaps he won't leave.

Jespar gestured for the waitress and over a fresh beer, we began to talk.

"Tell me about Sirius," he asked his voice gentle and quiet.

And so I told him about my first love, my first best friend and the first time I experienced genuine grief when I watched them slit his throat and toss him over the side.

A warm hand covered mine. "I'm sorry," he said. "If it's helpful I've always believed life is what you make it. Perhaps you'll find a new life here." Then he laughed, tossed back his beer and declared himself anti-heroic and a faithful follower of 'Seek bliss, avoid pain' philosophy. I thought he was the most interesting person I'd ever met. But if I knew what lay in store for me, I'd have joined Jespar on that boat to Kilé.


End file.
